The Man-Wolf and Other Tales | Page 2

children and tear, kill, and devour them." (Esquiról, Des
Maladies Mentales, Paris, 1838, vol i., p. 521.) Those whom the French
called _loups-garous_ were in German termed werewolves.
It may be observed on this that when the nails of the fingers and toes
are cut they grow indefinitely; but if they are allowed to grow
unchecked they soon curve over the extremities, form talons or claws,
and cease to grow--answering to the Scriptural account of the effects of
the mental disorder of Nebuchadnezzar.
Of course for every case of real malady many were imputed or charged
upon poor creatures, who were driven to madness by groundless
charges of witchcraft and sorcery, and being _loups-garous_ in secret.
Many innocent people were in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries
burnt at the stake as wolves in human form.
A correspondent has kindly supplied the following
information:--"When in Oude in India, twenty-six years ago, we heard
of several instances of native babies being carried off out of the villages
by she-wolves, and placed with their whelps, and brought up wild there;
there was one about when we were there, partially reclaimed, but

retaining much of the savage nature imbibed with the wolf's milk, and
having been accustomed to go on all-fours--_i.e._, knees and elbows;
but I conclude these were not affected with 'Lycanthropy.'"
With a few touches of his magic pencil the Laureate has drawn a
powerful picture of such a state of things in ancient Britain, of which
we can scarcely deny the literal faithfulness. It is not a poetic
conception; it is historic truth:--
"And ever and anon the wolf would steal The children and devour; but
now and then, Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat To
human sucklings; and the children, housed In her foul den, there at their
meat would growl, And mock their foster-mother on four feet, Till,
straightened, they grew up to wolf-like men, Worse than the wolves."
Coming of Arthur.
The following tale, in which the lycanthropy is far from being
altogether a mere effort of the imagination, appears to be founded upon
the belief in the continued existence of this rare species of madness
down to our own day--or near it--for the story seems to belong to the
year 1832.
The English reader will not fail to notice the correspondence between
the title and the well-known designation of the illustrious head of the
noble house of Grosvenor. Whatever connection there may or may not
be between that German Hugh Lupus of a thousand years ago and the
truly British Hugh Lupus of our day, all the base qualities of his
supposed progenitor have disappeared in him who is adorned with all
the qualities which make the English nobility rank as the pride and the
flower of our land.
F. A. M.
_The Vicaraqe, Broughton-in-Furness_.

THE MAN-WOLF.

CHAPTER I.

About Christmas time in the year 18--, as I was lying fast asleep at the
Cygne at Fribourg, my old friend Gideon Sperver broke abruptly into
my room, crying--
"Fritz, I have good news for you; I am going to take you to Nideck, two
leagues from this place. You know Nideck, the finest baronial castle in
the country, a grand monument of the glory of our forefathers?"
Now I had not seen Sperver, who was my foster-father, for sixteen
years; he had grown a full beard in that time, a huge fox-skin cap
covered his head, and he was holding his lantern close under my nose.
It was, therefore, only natural that I should answer--
"In the first place let us do things in order. Tell me who you are."
"Who I am? What! don't you remember Gideon Sperver, the
Schwartzwald huntsman? You would not be so ungrateful, would you?
Was it not I who taught you to set a trap, to lay wait for the foxes along
the skirts of the woods, to start the dogs after the wild birds? Do you
remember me now? Look at my left ear, with a frost-bite."
"Now I know you; that left ear of yours has done it; Shake hands."
Sperver, passing the back of his hand across his eyes, went on--
"You know Nideck?"
"Of course I do--by reputation; what have you to do there?"
"I am the count's chief huntsman."
"And who has sent you?"
"The young Countess Odile."
"Very good. How soon are we to start?"
"This moment. The matter is urgent; the old count is very ill, and his
daughter has begged me not to lose a moment. The horses are quite

ready."
"But, Gideon, my dear fellow, just look out at the weather; it has been
snowing three days without cessation."
"Oh, nonsense; we are not going out boar-hunting; put on your thick
coat, buckle on your spurs, and let us